


in the tarn beyond those birches

by agentlithium



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Folklore, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Season/Series 01, even as a shapeshifting water spirit all his uwus are for jim gordon, harvey is tired and old, nokken!oswald, oswald murders a LOT of completely innocent people, very specific scandinavian folktale i know almost nothing about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-14 20:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18484153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentlithium/pseuds/agentlithium
Summary: there's a spirit that I crave





	in the tarn beyond those birches

**Author's Note:**

> this makes no fucking sense. none at all. pacing? crackheadery at its finest. characterization? have never met her in my life. this is the longest single chapter fic i have ever written. th. the whole nokken folklore is explained in the fic i promise. please read this please i just really like atmospheric folky situations.
> 
> title and whatever from black water by timber timbre

Two bodies were found floating in the harbour.

It was a cool morning in late spring. Some dock workers were just beginning their shift when they spotted the pale corpses at the water’s surface. Originally, no one wanted to phone it in, in case it was a hit ordered by some higher-ups in the mob. A lot of deaths occurred at that dock and those employed there knew when to keep their mouths shut. They had seen their fair share of sorry sons-of-bitches who paid the ultimate price for their errors. Getting involved in this kind of business would only endanger their lives. It was best to just carry on working. But one of them had broken their vow of silence.

A wallet in one of their jackets identified them as a young couple— husband and wife. They had been dead a few days at most. The mother was roughly seven months along in her pregnancy at the time. A later investigation concluded that there was no foul play. No external or internal injury, no drugs in their systems, no sign of restrains having been placed on either of the victims. Both had water in their lungs, but that was it. The extended family was called in to claim the bodies and the wife’s father said that the two of them had been shopping in an area of downtown by the waterfront on what would be their final day alive. He had spoken to his daughter mere hours before she was in the river. The local news station ran the story, plastering the images of the dead over every screen in Gotham. No witnesses came forward to help detectives piece the whole story together and after days of fruitless investigation, the tragedy was written up as an accidental drowning. With all the violent crime in Gotham, it was assumed that this incident would be forgotten about soon enough.

But it wasn’t. In fact, it seemed to be something of a catalyst. A little over a week later, two more bodies washed up a few miles down the river. A pair of teenagers who had snuck out to meet up under the cover of night. Beer cans and spent cigarettes were left on the shore an equal distance from both of their homes. One of them had even dropped his phone there. The last message he sent was at 1:38 in the morning. It was proposed that perhaps they were swimming and got swept out by the tide, but the whipping wind and frigid temperature had both boys fully clothed in heavy jackets and sweaters. It was the same as the last case: no foul play, accidental drowning, open and shut in no time.

Next was a jogger— a single man in his early forties. He was farther out than the others, seen from one of the bridges connecting Gotham to the surrounding cities. He had been torn apart, deep gashes slicing down to the bone, muscle and flesh shredded to pieces. There was a morbid sense of hope among all involved in the case that the mutilation could shed some light on what was going on, but it was determined that he had been gored post-mortem by a passing boat. His neighbour saw him leave for a run late in the afternoon and he never arrived to work the next morning, which was out of character for him. It was discovered through the neighbour that he had a history of mental illness, but no suicidal tendencies. Quite the opposite. He had a crippling fear of death. He had just begun a course of medication to calm his anxiety. The once-reclusive man was finally opening up after decades of isolation. He had no loved ones come to claim him in the morgue. He was buried by strangers.

Within two months, there were ten reported drownings. There was no consistency among the victims. All were of different ages with different socioeconomic backgrounds, different jobs, different personal lives, and no overlap between them at all. None of them seemed to have ever crossed paths. Men and women, rich and poor, criminals and unassuming faces in the crowd. The police were stumped and the public was beginning to worry. Some believed it to be a serial killer, others assumed it was a string of suicides or just reckless behaviour. Water safety advertisements began running on every local channel, hoping it would make a difference in the steadily rising body count. Then, another strange happening came to light.

Around the time of each death, noise complaints began pouring in from the surrounding area. No one saw anything, but every caller reported the same sound: a long, loud wail cutting through the air. It was described as both human and animal at the same time. Unfortunately, the lead went nowhere. It was starting to look like there was nothing anyone could do aside from stay inside and avoid water at all costs while everyone prayed this series of horrible events would be over soon.

That was until Detective Jim Gordon received a call one evening. He had his hand on his front door handle when his phone buzzed in his pocket. A long day of work was now behind him and he was looking forward to a strong drink and a few hours of sleep. Those plans were to be put on hold. It was Bruce Wayne.

“Hello, Bruce. What can I do for you?”

He bared his teeth in a wince. The boy was rarely a bearer of good news. He prepared for the worst.

“Alfred just pulled Selina from the river. She’s okay. She’s here at the manor,” his voice was shaky and thin.

Jim was back in his car and peeling down the road before Bruce could say another word. This was the break he was searching for. Of what little he knew about Selina Kyle, he knew she was a skilled survivalist. There was no way she lived all of these years on Gotham’s streets, jumping over rooftops, evading death day in and day out, only to be done in by a rookie mistake or her own hand. Everything about this was getting more confusing by the second and the fate of the case could very well be resting in the erratic grip of the most difficult girl alive. Jim called Harvey on the way and instructed him to get to Wayne manor as soon as possible. The short explanation he offered was that he may have found a new lead. Harvey was less than thrilled to be stolen away from his old recliner but complied nonetheless.

Harvey pulled into the long driveway moments after Jim himself arrived. The two had been partners for just under a year and Harvey was certain that he was far too old for Jim’s yuppy detective horseshit. Though he secretly admired the seemingly endless motivation he had for seeking justice, whatever he was here for could have absolutely waited until morning or, at the very least, Jim could have investigated it his damn self. He got out of his car with a grimace on his face.

“This better be good, Jim. I’m missing Golden Girls for this.”

Jim gave him that trademarked condescending head-tilt that made Harvey want to smack him. Jim was still his subordinate. If he so chose, Harvey could claim seniority and send them both home out of it. He had half a mind to do it, just to remind Jim of where he sat in the food chain.

“Selina Kyle was just pulled out of the river. She’s fine, apparently, but this might be related to the drownings. She could tell us something.”

Harvey’s frown softened. The recent deaths had admittedly gotten to him. Gotham was rife with gruesome murders, but incidents like this always seemed to stick around, ones with no clues or answers. His nights had been restless ever since he saw that first couple in the morgue. The cold water mostly spared them from decomposition, but their wide, cloudy eyes haunted him relentlessly. Selina was pretty messed up. It was not outside the realm of possibility that she tried to off herself, but he really hoped that Jim was onto something here. Anything to put an end to the dark streak of losses.

Both men were welcomed by Alfred at the door. They followed him through cavernous rooms and sprawling corridors. Jim was still impressed with the size of the mansion. He had never been in a house so big, aside from this one.

“There is a section of the river just beyond the property line. It’s clearly visible from the highest floor of the west wing,” Alfred explained as he walked. “I was dusting up there when I thought I saw someone walking through the trees and to the water’s edge. With the news about all those drownings, I was worried that the poor bugger was gonna be fished out of the bloody river next. I bolted right out the door and, of course, Bruce came running after. Seeing me in a full sprint, he probably thought the house was on fire. So I’m getting scratched by every branch we pass, Bruce is shouting, and I get there just in time to see their head go underwater. Well, I dive right in, ruin my favourite vest, and sure enough, up bobs Miss Kyle.”

“So, something pulled her under?” Harvey inquired.

“No, she marched straight in like she saw a mud trout that owed her money. When she came back topside, she was quiet. There was an odd sort of look in her eye, then she just came to and started fighting me. Little rugrat did this,” he gestured to the large cuts on his cheek where Selina had clawed at his face. “She didn’t seem to know where she was.”

Alfred turned into the sitting area that Jim had become familiar with during his visits to the mansion. A roaring fire illuminated the two kids sitting side by side. Selina was curled up on the couch by the fireplace under a pile of knitted quilts. Her bouncy curls were sopping wet and flat to her head. It looked like she was wearing a pair of Bruce’s pyjamas. She was cackling at something the detectives must have just missed. Bruce looked far more serious, his brow furrowed in concern, but it seemed that the girl was doing just fine. She reached out to tousle his neatly combed hair, laughing louder when he tried to swat her hand away.

“Selina.”

She cast a disinterested glance at Jim.

“Hey, Gordon. What’s good?”

“Miss Kyle, the detectives want—”

“I know what they want. They wanna know about the guy in the river.”

Jim and Harvey tensed up at once, a sinking feeling coming over them. There were only ten confirmed victims. Were there more that had yet to be found?

“There’s another body in the river?”

Selina rolled her eyes like this was the stupidest question she had ever heard.

“ _No_ , the guy _standing_ in the river.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Uh, come again?” Harvey cupped a hand to his ear as if that would make her comment suddenly make any sense.

“How about you just tell us exactly what happened, starting from the beginning,” prompted Jim. Selina shrugged.

“‘Kay. I was dropping by the manor to… grab a few things—”

“Beautiful!” Alfred exclaimed. “Fantastic. Stealing from us again, are we?”

“I never said that, but if I was stealing, you have enough junk lying around. You wouldn’t miss whatever I was hypothetically going to take. As I was saying: I was hanging around when I thought I heard something out in the woods. Normally, I wouldn’t be interested in whatever some freak was doing out here at night, but it just…  pulled me in. It was so weird.”

“What did you hear?” Bruce interjected. “Was it like an animal? It could have been the groundskeeper.” He was waved off by Selina.

“No— it was music.”

Harvey gave Jim a hard look. Selina had no documented history of substance abuse, but she hardly had any documented history. He was starting to think this was little more than a hallucination crafted by the young thief’s troubled mind. Or, more likely, a lie. Jim, however, continued to humour her.

“What about the man you saw? The one in the river?”

“I’m getting to that. So I heard the music and I had to go see where it was coming from. It felt like there was a hand on my back, pushing me towards it. It was weird music too, but it was kinda nice. Anyway, I end up at the river and there’s just this guy standing there, right in the middle of it, playing the violin.”

Harvey wasn’t buying this.

“See, that’s where you lose me.”

“Not my fault you’re going senile,” Selina crossed her arms. “That’s what I saw.”

“That part of the river is at least ten feet deep,” said Alfred. “It drops off no distance at all from the shore.”

“Well, it was only up to his knees.”

“So—” Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose “— either this guy is out practicing his violin on stilts in the river, or Christ has returned to walk on water and drown people.”

“He could have been standing on a rock,” Bruce suggested. Now, Harvey couldn’t believe his first thought was stilts. Jim was still trying in vain to prevent this informal interrogation from derailing any further.

“But how did you end up in the river?”

“Like I said, the music kinda pulled me in. I didn’t feel like I was in danger or anything. It was like mind control. It was all kinds of freaky. All I knew was that I just had to get closer to the guy, and then I was being dragged out of the water and the dude was gone.”

“Okay, to recap,” Jim began, “you were lured into the river by a strange man playing the violin?”

“Pretty much.”

“And what did he look like?”

“It was dark, so I couldn’t see him that well, but he was wearing a suit. A real fancy one, too. His hair stuck up like this,” she put her hand on her head like a bird’s feathered crest. “And his eyes were glowing, like a cat’s eyes when a streetlight catches them, y’know? Really bright green.”

“Oh, sweet, tender infant Jesus,” Harvey whispered to himself. Selina bristled in response.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“First of all, you don’t exactly have a good track record for telling the truth, but that aside, you gotta admit that this story of yours is absolutely crazy.”

“It’s not crazy because I really saw it! It almost killed me!”

“Knowing you, you probably saw a dollar floating in the river and jumped in to get it.”

“Harvey,” Jim scolded, but the damage had been done.

“Fine, don’t believe me. Someone else is gonna drown and it’s gonna be your fault.”

Jim knew it was over. Selina wasn’t going to talk from then on, so he had no choice other than to accept defeat. He stood, thanked Selina for the information, said his goodbyes, and showed himself out. He was in his car before Harvey could catch up with him and defend his actions.

Her testimony rolled around in his head on the drive home. It _was_ very far-fetched. He could understand Harvey’s hesitance to take her seriously, but since Jim had returned Gotham, he was made painfully aware that anything, no matter how fantastical, was possible in this city. Maybe it wasn’t quite as Selina explained it, but she very well could have given them a nudge in the right direction. Although, where this direction would lead them, Jim couldn’t say.

The next day at the precinct was gearing up to be tense.

Jim was at his desk, poring over some paperwork when Harvey showed up with a mug of coffee. It was clear that Jim was still rather displeased with him. He didn’t engage with him when they made eye-contact and Harvey decided against his initial instinct to lighten the mood with a joke. Jim obviously had no patience for teasing.

“I’m looking over the case files,” Jim announced. He was mad, but not mad enough to interfere with the progress of the case by ignoring his partner.

“Cool,” Harvey nodded awkwardly. “Anything in there like what Selina saw?”

He still thought it was all foolish. There is no way some musical siren was plaguing the waters of Gotham. Selina was a street kid— she probably huffed, sniffed, or smoked the wrong thing.

“No.” Jim’s answer was nothing if not predictable, further proving Harvey’s point.

“Jim, you know she was lying or—”

“It was still out of line for you to piss her off and potentially jeopardize the case. She’s not going to tell us anything now!”

“Honestly, Jim, you can’t actually believe her. You can’t seriously think that some river demon is floating around, dressed to the nines, drowning people for no reason, and busting out some tunes on his violin.”

“Fiddle.”

Harvey jumped. Neither noticed Ed skirting up behind him. He was wearing that wide, discomfiting grin that could send anyone running.

“For fuck’s sake, Ed! Don’t do that!”

“Sorry,” he said, but the grin never wavered. “Though they are essentially the same— ‘fiddle’ being a colloquial term for violin— a violin is a fiddle, but a fiddle is not necessarily a violin. A fiddle can be any bowed string instrument, including a violin, but the legends most often state he plays the fiddle, specifically.”

“Ed,” Jim cut his rambling short, “who plays the fiddle?”

“The _Nokken_ ,” his expression lit up even more, almost impossibly so. Harvey had to take a minute to attempt at processing what just came out of Ed’s mouth. He concluded, as always, it was probably something that no one cared about.

“Nygma, what in God’s sheer pantyhose are you talking about?”

“I’m glad you asked. Also known as the _neck_ , _nack_ , or _nixie_ , the _Nokken_ is a figure in Germanic folklore that appears as a shapeshifting water spirit. It is commonly reported to look like a monster of twigs and mud or a handsome, well-dressed man. It really depends on the folktale, but it is said that he is a skilled musician who uses his music to drown anyone unfortunate enough to hear it.”

“That is extremely interesting, Ed.” Harvey was mocking him, but Ed didn’t appear to realize. “But I thought you were a science geek. Do you really believe all that shit?”

Ed laughed.

“Oh, no, of course not. It just sounded quite a bit like what you were describing. Well, I’ll leave you both to it then.” With that, he turned on his heel and scampered off. Harvey was about to start ribbing him when he saw Jim’s terrible, awful look of consideration.

“The _Nokken_ ,” he mused aloud.

“Jim, no.”

“What?”

“You don’t believe it, do you? You can’t. You cannot think that a ghost is killing people in Gotham.”

“Harvey, come on, a lot of weird stuff does happen in this city.”

“Yeah, weird stuff like weather balloons as murder weapons or drugs that give you super strength and liquify your bones— that’s just the recent shit. Not goddamn Grimm fairy tales come to life. Am I the only person who isn’t going crazy right now?”

“Okay, okay, I’m not saying that’s what’s causing the drownings.” Jim held up his hands in surrender. “There has to be a logical explanation for all of this.”

“Exactly, and we better figure it out fast,” Harvey punctuated his statement with a swig of from his mug.

Jim Gordon wasn’t a spiritual man. Sure, he had his own superstitious rituals in childhood— don’t sing while driving past a graveyard, don’t walk under a ladder, don’t break a mirror. He was even an altar boy at his church until his father died. He had left most of those beliefs behind as he matured, but something about the spirit Ed mentioned stood out to him. Naturally, Jim had never heard of it before. He didn’t have any extensive knowledge of Scandinavian folklore or any real knowledge of it at all. It was just too wild of a coincidence that the drownings were so similar to this creature of legend. Considering all the strange characters in Gotham, someone could have drawn inspiration from the folktale.

The workday went on as any other. The detectives were bound to their desks for most of the shift. They were called to a domestic disturbance around noon, an arrest was made, and that was the end of the action. Jim and Harvey were equally eager to clock out. Once Jim had made his way through the stack of reports he was due to finish, he was out of the precinct in a flash. He did love his job, but he was ready to get out of his tight shirt and stiff slacks six hours ago. He sped down a long stretch of road, getting closer and closer to his shitty apartment until his focus was broken.

The library was coming up fast to his right. It stayed open late to accommodate students from the nearby university. Jim hadn’t forgotten the story Ed told him. If anything, it had only grown more intriguing. If someone was trying to recreate the myth, a little after-hours research wouldn’t hurt.

He turned into the parking lot at sundown and didn’t leave until closing.

A portion of his time at the library was spent hopelessly lost, scouring the folklore section. He didn’t anticipate the collection to be quite so large. Jim was eventually forced to give up his search and kindly accept the help of the librarian who had stumbled upon him. It took her a few minutes, but she presented him with an armful of encyclopedias, anthologies, and essays on Scandinavian folktales. She could barely see over the stack as she set it down on a table. She wished him luck and Jim was alone again. He took his seat and grabbed the first book on top.

Thankfully, very little of each book was actually dedicated to what he was interested in. A brief look at the index and he was set on the right track, finding a paragraph or two here and there about the water spirit. Beyond what Ed said, Jim found a few more points. The spirit can be heard crying before a drowning occurs, lining up with the noise complaints from before; in Scandinavian countries, water lilies are sometimes known as _näckrosor_ or _nøkkeroser_ — meaning ‘nix roses’; and if you’re a musician yourself, you can lure him with gifts, such as a few drops of blood from your finger, strong alcohol, or a black animal as a sacrifice and he will teach you to play just as well as he does. Jim assured himself that he didn’t believe in this. It was just to shed some light on a potential lead.

When he saw the security guard begin locking the building up, he returned his reading materials to the librarian and left.

He was awoken the morning after by a phone call from Essen. She answered to his sluggish ‘hello’ with a curt statement.

“There’s another one.”

Jim got to the dock Essen directed him to just in time to see the waterlogged corpse being fitted with a body bag. Harvey was already there, speaking with the crime scene investigators. Jim came over to them.

“Any ID on the victim?”

“Oh, I already know this guy.” Harvey didn’t sound too bothered about another death. “Cassidy ‘Nine Lives’ Nolan. Worked with the Irish mafia as a hitman. Pretty high in the pecking order too. Guess his nine lives were up.”

“You think this is mob-related?”

“No, it’s the same as all the other drownings. Besides, Nolan was too important of an asset and if an underling carried it out, then they’re as good as dead.”

Jim caught a glimpse of the body as they were zipping the bag up, then Harvey stopped them.

“What’s that in his pocket?”

The other investigator looked to the breast pocket of Nolan’s suit jacket.

“A flower?”

“It’s a water lily,” Jim said incredulously.

Everyone murmured their unenthusiastic agreement and continued on without any more interruptions. Now that he was out of the river, rigor mortis was beginning to set in. Jim didn’t move, perturbed by yet another coincidence tying the case to myth. From his research, he found out that water lilies were sacred to the creature and any who disturbed his garden would die. What if that was the final nail in Nolan’s coffin?

“Harvey, where do water lilies grow in Gotham?

“What? How would I know that?”

“That could be where Nolan entered the river.”

“I mean, there’s that paved trail that goes through the park. That passes by the river, right? They might grow there. I couldn’t know for certain since I’m more of an inside guy myself.”

Jim knew the trail. He had walked it a few times as a kid, but never veered off to the water. It was barely a twenty-minute journey when travelling at a leisurely pace.

“But what would Nolan be doing out there by himself?” Harvey questioned.

“What if he wasn’t alone?” Jim countered.

“Well, we can’t be sure about that until we find another one.”

Still, they hoped there wouldn’t be another. Jim especially, since he had an idea. A stupid fucking idea, but it was a last-ditch effort.

Another day dragged on and the detectives were clocking out again. Harvey was announcing his intentions to drink his favourite pub dry that night. He wasn’t scheduled to come in until the early afternoon, so he was seizing the opportunity to get as hammered as his liver would allow. Jim declined the offer to join him. He wasn’t planning on telling Harvey about his plan for the evening, but something forced it out of him as they were leaving the station. _Precaution? Fear?_

“I’m going down to the river tonight. Maybe I can see something for myself.” Harvey skidded to a halt.

“Whoa! What? Are you suicidal? There could be some maniac out there just itching to murder a dumbass rookie cop like you and you’re gonna go seeking him out?”

“I’ll be armed, of course. I can bring earplugs if you’re worried about the _Nokken_ luring me away,” Jim taunted. Harvey huffed. For once, he wasn’t the one who was joking around.

“I know I won’t be able to stop you, but please don’t do it. I still don’t believe in that goddamn merman or whatever it is, but there is something out there killing people. You aren’t gonna be next.”

“And I won’t be next. I’ll be at work tomorrow.”

He waved to Harvey and turned to go. Harvey stared at his back, opening and closing his mouth with nothing to convince him, nothing to bargain. It would be pointless. Jim was too stubborn. Good thing Harvey was drinking tonight. If he couldn’t remember his own last name, he wouldn’t remember that Jim was walking right into his own untimely execution. He wouldn’t be the first partner Harvey outlived.

Jim drove to his apartment. He changed into something that made him look slightly less like a nosy cop. He pulled on a dark turtleneck, long coat, and wool cap. If anyone saw him, they would probably think he was the one out drowning people. He took a moment to think before he stormed out the door. What was he expecting to find out there? He again reiterated to himself that this wasn’t a monster hunting expedition. He was not looking for some malicious, supernatural fiddler. He was looking for a killer. Should he die like the others before him, so be it.

There wasn’t much else for him to consider. What he was about to do would, at best, yield nothing and leave him feeling stupid or, at worst, result in his death. Simple as that. He made sure his gun was stored within reach under his jacket and his badge was in his pocket. For good measure, he threw in a pocket knife. He returned to his car, pulling out into traffic. The voice of reason did everything it could to convince him to go back home. _You don’t have to do this. It’s not heroic, it’s foolhardy. What about Barbara?_

 _What about her_ , he thought to himself. Jim was done grieving her the day she left. He didn’t miss her anywhere close to as much as he expected he would. Their engagement was a hollow performance piece from the start. If she was so miserable with him that she was crawling back into Montoya’s bed, there was nothing that could be done to salvage their relationship. More power to her.

The fall of dusk had passed him by and as his destination grew nearer, his anxiety doubled and tripled. His stomach writhed in his gut. Was this a suicide mission? He had seen the horrors of war and witnessed every horrible crime in the book, but it had been years since he experienced fear like this. When he parked in the empty lot at the mouth of the trail, he sat in the silence for a while. There wasn’t another living soul around. Given the local crime rates, it was no surprise that no one was out for a stroll that night. Jim waited and waited and what for? A sign from God to get the hell out of here, or a sign to press on?

He threw the door open, stepped out, and locked the car behind him. The forest beckoned him in and he fell forward into it’s gaping maw.

The concrete beneath his boots was uneven, tripping him if he wasn’t too careful. The trees around him were thin and pale. Most were still bare from winter. The light of the stars shined upon the path before him. There wasn’t a cloud in sight. Jim’s head was on a constant swivel. Every cracking branch or rustling bush could have signified his impending demise. Still, he continued on with purpose. Tonight, he was solving that case.

Through the wood, he saw the river. The water shimmered and lapped at the shore. Jim turned into the treeline, maneuvering through the birches and dead grass. He came out on the other side a few feet from the place where the river was narrowest. Past the reeds, a cluster of white flowers floated over the glittering surface. The sounds of the city were all around him, but standing there, he felt like he was the only person for miles around. He pulled his coat tight about him. He surveyed the area surrounding him and elected to perch himself atop a large, flat rock. It was just on the edge of the river, halfway in. He positioned himself such that his shoes wouldn’t get soaked through. He supposed he should get at least somewhat comfortable, seeing as he would be out here for a while.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been there— it could have been twenty minutes or two hours— when he noticed something was different. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it. The wind that once moved the trees had died down to nothing. The streetlights across the way seemed to dim like a heavy fog was rolling in, blanketing the land. Neither were the cause of his unease, though. He watched scattered cars driving over the bridge in the distance and—

That’s when it came to him. It was dead silent. He couldn’t hear the city anymore.

He was getting tired, but he couldn’t give in to fatigue. The atmosphere shifted and altered, transforming to something absolutely mystifying. The floral aroma of the water lilies lulled him into an alarming state of serenity. The one thing keeping him upright was the rush of adrenaline through his veins. The only word his mind supplied him with was _blood_. He then recalled what he learned at the library, what one can bring the creature forward with.

Two halves of him wrestled for control. His common sense pleaded with him. He would look crazy doing this, calling forth some demon with a pagan blood ritual. The other, headstrong voice, the one that lead him to where he was in that moment, told him to _do it_. He had come all this way, why stop now? Now that he thought about it, this voice didn’t sound like his own or any voice he recognized. It phrased its argument like a question, but it felt like a demand. Jim pulled out his pocket knife with a hesitant hand.

It was insane, all of this was.

But as he slid the blade across the pad of his finger, the dizzying haze cleared out with each drop of crimson red dissipating in the water. The world was still muted, but his head was unpolluted once again. He cursed at the pain and put the digit in his mouth. _What the hell was that?_ Was he losing his mind? He worked himself up into such a paranoid frenzy, he really managed to convince himself to slice up his hand. Harvey would give him so much shit if he found out about this. Jim decided it was time to leave before he cut something off. He vacated the rock, heading back to the trail and chuckling at his own idiocy.

He choked on his voice at the harsh drag of a bow over taut strings.

He whipped back around, fumbling for his gun, to see a figure placing his ornate instrument atop the rock. A gesture of surrender. The glow of the moon outlined a unique silhouette. A skeletal man with sharp features and odd, birdlike hair stood in the water. His clothes were old-fashioned and extremely formal. His suit was blacker than the night itself, his vest adorned with shining silver buttons. Only his red tie differed.

Selina had said his eyes reflected the light, but instead, Jim swore they gave off a low light of their own. That was enough to convince Jim that this wasn’t the work of some folklore fanatic with an incredibly specific modus operandi.

“Something tells me you’re not looking for music lessons,” his lips curled into a smirk. Jim could have jumped out of his skin, hearing him talk. He sounded dry, hoarse. Jim nearly forgot how to speak, but the creature didn’t have a problem with keeping the conversation going by himself.

“I don’t get a lot of visitors. _Quelle surprise,_ right? There’s not much one can do to spruce up a river, but you have to work with what you’re given.”

Jim gaped vacantly at him.

“You know, it’s rude to ignore someone when they’re talking to you,” he laughed, flashing razor-sharp, pointed teeth. “The question that remains is, if you aren’t here to play, what are you here for?” He cocked his head to the side. Jim stuttered and fumbled for anything resembling a confident answer. He stood tall to give the illusion of bravery.

“You’re the one responsible for the drownings.”

The spirit looked disheartened.

“Oh, that’s all?”

Jim gave one slow nod.

“Well, then yes, I am.”

Jim surmised that he was expecting a different kind of visit. His smile had faded to a sullen glower. He wasn’t apologetic, just visibly disappointed. Jim rummaged in his pocket for his badge, because that would stop whatever he was facing off against from slaughtering him.

“G— GCPD,” Jim stammered. _Wow, that did a whole lot of good._ The _Nokken_ rolled his eyes in a way that was startlingly natural.

“Seriously? I go through all the unnecessary effort of coming out here and engaging in a few pleasantries, and you wave around that meaningless symbol like it has any bearing over me? I’m insulted. Not just because you think I bend to human laws, but you come knocking on my door just to call me a criminal.”

“You’re a killer.”

“Would you punish a shark for hunting? A shark kills indiscriminately. It needs to survive and survival is all it knows. All it can do is eat and eat and eat. Would you condemn something for doing the only thing it can?”

“Murdering families is not the same as a shark feeding to live!” Jim tone raised, sparking.

“I have only killed one man. The one who stole from me. I personally held him under until his lungs were filled to the brim. I wanted to feel the life drain from him, the dirty thief.”

“But you killed ten other people!”

“They drowned themselves! I never laid a hand on anyone,” the other man’s irritation bloomed to anger.

“They were innocent!”

“Death is all I know!” he barked. “Killing is the only thing I can do!”

Jim eased off. He really didn’t want to enrage this thing. He watched some of his vitriol burn away like this interaction had already exhausted him.

“I’m not like _you_ ,” he reached out and jabbed Jim’s chest with a claw-like nail, leaving a wet spot in his wake. It sent an icy shock through Jim’s body. “I wasn’t created by something loving or holy. I was born of disdain and bitter isolation. I have been cursed with this life. The only blessing I have is my music and even that is a bane on humanity.”

He paused to compose himself. When he resumed, he spoke softer, sadder.

“Do you even know what it’s like to be alone? I don’t mean briefly alone. Have you ever been without family? Without a friend? Without a lover to come home to? Could you even comprehend what centuries of crushing solitude feels like? After that long, you would do anything to have somebody to call your own. Anything.”

Jim didn’t know what it was like. He couldn’t. Even when he felt like he was the last man on earth, he still had his mom or his friends to fall back on. The spirit was lonely.

“All of those people, flaunting their happy lives in front of something as miserable as me.”

“If you can never be happy, why can they?” Jim finished for him. The spirit gazed at him with wide, luminous eyes. It was strangely juvenile.

“It’s not fair.”

“They didn’t have to die because they had something you didn’t.”

“Maybe so,” was all he said. They stared at one another without a word, until he and Jim averted their gaze at the same time. Jim rubbed his neck as the spirit scratched his jaw. Neither anticipated their interaction ending up here.

“Who are you, anyway?” the spirit mumbled. It was hardly above a croaking whisper, but with the lack of white noise, it was as if he shouted it.

“I’m a detective.”

“I can see that, but who are you really?”

Jim didn’t know if this was some kind of ghostly trick, but he played along. If he wasn’t dead yet, let’s see how far he could make it.

“My name is Jim.”

“How did you know to come looking for me, Jim?”

“The girl who got away from you gave a pretty accurate description. And some help from a colleague with very niche interests. But the girl is homeless. She doesn’t have a family or anything. Why go after her?”

“Wrong place, wrong time, I suppose. I didn’t even know she was listening. I don’t go after anyone. I’m apathetic toward humans, but I’m not that vindictive. As I said, they drown themselves. I just lead them to the water.”

“But if you watched and let it happen, it’s no different than murdering them yourself.”

“My music is my only comfort. I have no qualms about the deaths I cause. It’s sad, but such is the tragedy of existing. Life is endless sorrow and all that jazz,” he gestured flippantly. Applying mortal social conventions to a non-human entity is a senseless task, but that didn’t excuse the creature’s crimes.

“That doesn’t justify anything.”

“Never said it did.”

He sat on the rock that Jim had occupied earlier, fiddle at his side. He was calmer now, but nowhere near the cocky charade he put on at first.

“You never told me your name,” Jim said.

“I don’t think it would be wise. Knowing someone’s name gives you power over them.”

“I told you mine, you do the same.”

The spirit’s mouth quirked up in a smile. He shook his head as if to say ‘oh, what the hell’.

“Oswald. I’m Oswald.”

He looked like an Oswald. Regal, dignified, bygone, and peculiar.

“I don’t know if I should say that it’s nice to meet you, because—”

“Because it’s not, I know. You don’t have to lie. It has been a while since I last said my name aloud, though.”

“You don’t get many visitors.”

“That, and knowing my name does give you power over me. With it, you can break my spell. The last person I told was the one that brought me here. I used to live in a beautiful lake. I taught a young man, an aspiring musician, everything I knew. When he rose to moderate fame, he took me with him to America. I made myself into whatever he wanted me to be. I left my home for him. I had fallen in love with him and I tried to stay by his side but I couldn’t. The water called to me. He promised he would stay, but I haven’t seen him since. That must be decades ago now.”

“You’ve been here for that long? Why did you start killing people now?”

“I missed him too much. I had no want to play until I was so filled with resentment that I decided to play in spite of him, in spite of everyone.”

“I thought you weren’t vindictive.”

Oswald chuckled. “Perhaps I am, a little.”

Jim tentatively moved to sit beside him. There was just enough room for him to leave some space between them.

“I haven’t had anyone come to see me since he left,” Oswald twisted to face him. “You’re not exactly the ideal guest, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

“I guess not. You wouldn’t have chosen me?” Jim joked halfheartedly. It’s not like it was the time for it.

“Well, I wouldn’t wish for a detective to yell at me about being a murderer, no.”

“What would have wished for? Your musician?”

“No, not him. I’d like an honest man. Ideally, a European tourist who would take me home and live in a house by the shore so I could stay with him whenever I pleased without leaving my home behind. I grow terribly despondent and depressed when I’m away from the water.”

“He would have to have some questionable morals.”

“That’s a given. I could never fall for some obnoxious do-gooder.” Jim stifled a grin at the disgusted wrinkle of his nose.

“You couldn’t sacrifice your murderous ways?”

He was unsettled to hear himself talk about death so lightly. Oswald had an aura, a pull about him. You felt what he did. Jim could feel his ease, his emptiness, and the underlying longing for company.

“Sacrifice is a part of love, but if you give up everything, you lose who you are. If someone loves you, they won’t ask that of you.”

Oswald picked up his fiddle and Jim stiffened. He kept his back to the detective as he straightened up, rising to his feet.

“Don’t worry. There’s no one out here beside me and you.”

He positioned the instrument under his chin and lifted his bow. His strokes started slow but quickly built speed. It sounded traditional, certainly something Jim would never listen to on his own. It was fast-paced and lively and carried a darkness within its melody. The song was hypnotic. Oswald danced from note to note without a hitch. His brilliant eyes fluttered closed and he played like it was nothing. Music came to him like an evolutionary reflex. Jim was moving before he realized. Not toward the river, toward Oswald. The music drew him in further and further. He ceased his approach maybe an arm's length away, though the action itself was just short of impossible. He was close enough to see the smattering of freckles over Oswald’s hooked nose. Moonlight painted his pallid skin, the shock of wet, ebony hair. He looked incomprehensible. He looked…

The song stopped. Oswald turned to him again. He underestimated how near Jim was to him. He nearly ran into his chest. He hung his head shyly.

“It’s almost morning, Jim. You should go.”

He had opened up more to the detective than he had to anyone. He gave him his name, his most glaring weakness. A pursuit like this would be ill-conceived and even more ill-fated. Why waste the time? Why relive the pain? The memory of his last love was still fresh, still sore. But to again experience falling in love? To hold hope in his snowy heart, no matter how fleeting?

_You would do anything to have somebody to call your own. Anything._

“Is it?” Jim noticed the sky fading to a gentle blue. Oswald stumbled back without any of his prior paranormal grace.

“Sorry to keep you all night, Detective,” he failed to appear suave and collected. It hit Jim all at once that he had spent his evening talking to and empathizing with the very killer he was searching for, and now what? Oswald was intelligent and aware of the deaths he caused, he just didn’t care. It was not like Jim could arrest a spirit. What would he say to Harvey? To the families of the deceased? What if this was all for nothing and Oswald would continue doing as he pleased?

Oswald sensed Jim’s distress. It was written in his anguished expression. He scrambled for something to say, anything to offer.

“Hey, I’ll cut you a deal.”

“A deal for what?”

“Come back here. Whenever is most convenient, of course. I won’t harm a hair on any of your citizen’s precious little heads. All you have to do is visit every once in a while.”

“How do I know that you won’t keep hurting people?”

“Wow, so I’m a murderer _and_ a liar to you? You wound me, James. But I’ll just have to prove it to you.”

Jim had everything to lose in this bet, but there wasn’t much else he could do. Oswald looked as honest as a ghost possibly could. Even in the misty morning, his eyes were like fireflies. Flickering like a flame, bright and consuming. He extended an arm in an offering of trust.

“Fair enough.” They shook hands, but when Jim went to let go, Oswald held tighter. He was stronger than he looked. Jim was reminded once more that he wasn’t mortal. This was probably just a fraction of his grip strength. His ghoulish visage struggled to be unintimidating, but he was trying. It didn’t make up for much, though.

“Bring us something to drink next time,” he added.

Jim relaxed.

“As long as we don’t find any more bodies, I’ll bring you whatever you want.”

Oswald set him free and smiled.

“In that case, I like brandy best.”

He was going to leave it there. He made a step toward the river, then, on an impulse went back to Jim. He had nothing else to say, no plan of action, so he panicked.

“I look forward to seeing you again,” he blurted and sealed his fate with a kiss to Jim’s stubbled cheek. By the time Jim absorbed what Oswald had just done, he had vanished. Jim grazed his face with his fingertips, feeling the same electric sensation he had when Oswald touched him before. When the sounds of the city swelled to a familiar deafening chorus, Jim fled back to the trail before he could be seen by the early commuters. His pulse was steady, his breathing even, and his shoulders free of burden. He hadn’t been so tranquil since God knows when. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he was still under Oswald’s control. Maybe this was real. Only time would tell. As he left the parking lot, the breaking of dawn bathed Gotham in vibrant orange light.

He made it through his front door just as the weariness enveloped him. He shrugged off his coat and threw himself, body and bones, on his cheap couch. He didn’t feel the springs digging into each and every one of his vital organs. He was too overjoyed to be finally lying down. It would be his first time ever being late for a shift, but it’s better to be late than unconscious on his desk. Besides, it had been a lengthy, confusing, extraordinary night.

He was asleep in seconds with the fiddler’s song running through his head.

**Author's Note:**

> if ur actually educated on this legend feel free to roast me. and ur welcome for the lack of romantic payoff. smash that dislike button and make sure to unsubscribe below :-)


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